


A Foregone Conclusion

by deviouskirin



Category: Sports RPF
Genre: Crack, I Don't Even Know, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 16:23:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/838911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deviouskirin/pseuds/deviouskirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lance Armstrong and Alberto Contador are in a closet together. Literally, not metaphorically.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Foregone Conclusion

**Author's Note:**

> This was written on a dare. I made an open request for prompts, and my friend K gave me 'Armstrong/Contador, Tour de France 2009' and laughed in my face as I tried to figure out what the hell she was talking about. I still have no idea what's going on.

Lance grabs him after the press conference, dragging Alberto into a rather small janitor's closet. He knows it's Lance, because he'd spent the past hour or so on the receiving end of the man's most smoldering looks, all of which promised something along these lines. And while he wasn't worried about who had, for all intents and purposes, just kidnapped him, that didn't mean Alberto was just going to go with it.

Before Lance could do whatever it was he'd been planning, Alberto pushes him against the closed door, tangling their legs together and leaning in closely. 

"How did you enjoy the scenery this year? Was it to your liking?" he whispers, nosing along the line of Lance's jaw in the dark, grinning at his sharp intake of breath.

"W-What?"

"You spent the majority of the tour behind me, and I know how much you enjoy my ass. I only want to make sure you were satisfied with the view."

Lance chuckles, running a hand down his back to palm the ass in question. "It was decent," he rasps lowly, "but I could think of a few ways to improve the look."

"Oh? And what would you suggest, Mr. Armstrong?"

"Less clothing, for one. Maybe a few nice, red hand-prints as well. To accent the natural color, of course."

Alberto shivers, resting his forehead on Lance's shoulder as a sharp wave of _want_ courses through him.

"That can be arranged," he finally offers, and Lance laughs like he knew it was a foregone conclusion. Cocky bastard that he is, he's right.


End file.
